


a borrowed bedroom virginal and spare

by sannlykke



Series: SASO 2017 [5]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Courtesan, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, Meiji Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-12 22:38:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11171538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sannlykke/pseuds/sannlykke
Summary: “You’re gonna drink yourself into an early grave,denka-sama,” he says half-mockingly, dropping Ryouta unceremoniously onto the futon. Daiki doesn’t bother closing the door; it’s no secret around these parts how often the youngest son of the Emperor visits, not anymore. As for proper decorum—if there is one thing Ryouta wants out of his visits, it’s not that.





	a borrowed bedroom virginal and spare

**Author's Note:**

> for this saso2017 br1 [prompt](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21522.html?thread=10581266#cmt10581266):
>
>> Meiji era AU. Aomine is a top-class courtesan. Kise visits A LOT. Some angst but no chara deaths.

“Aominecchi,” purrs a silky voice from behind the pillars, behind the smoky haze of the night, “Are we going to be playing this game all night?”  
  
Daiki doesn’t answer. Instead, he hides beneath the wooden walkway, listening for the sound of wooden boards creaking. If Ryouta sees him, there is no indication—he’s drunk, after all, a rare occurrence for someone who can hold about three times as much alcohol as Daiki can. That’s enough to tell Daiki he probably had a shit day at court.  
  
He smirks as he hears Ryouta’s feet come close overhead, his silken sash dangling so close to Daiki’s face that he could pull it. Which is what he does.  
  
Ryouta yelps and tumbles, but Daiki catches him before he actually falls to the ground. He giggles in Daiki’s arms as the taller man walks him back inside, past the other rooms reeking of sex and liquor, into the private room reserved only for the highest-ranking guests.  
  
“You’re gonna drink yourself into an early grave, _denka-sama_ ,” he says half-mockingly, dropping Ryouta unceremoniously onto the futon. Daiki doesn’t bother closing the door; it’s no secret around these parts how often the youngest son of the Emperor visits, not anymore. As for proper decorum—if there is one thing Ryouta wants out of his visits, it’s not that.  
  
“So _how_ are you going to service me tonight, Aominecchi?” Ryouta slurs as he tries to stand up, draping himself over Daiki’s shoulder, grip surprisingly firm around Daiki’s arms despite his advanced state of inebriation. He sits up (or tries to), pulling the ornamental chrysanthemums from his hair, letting it run long and flowing down his back. Daiki stands still and lets the blond lean back and fiddle with his sash. “Why don’t—why don’t you just, lie here, lie down, with me, hm? Let’s…talk.”  
  
Daiki raises an eyebrow as Ryouta falls back into bed, beckoning to him like a cat waiting to be fed. He isn’t fond of listening to customers complain their way through their sessions, the alcohol amplifying what already sounds like boring day-to-day annoyances most of the time. He sinks into the futon next to Ryouta, listening to him breathe, looking up at his face half-hidden beneath a sleeve. Even in the dim candlelight he looks beautiful, if weary.  
  
Customers aren’t supposed to stay overnight in Yoshiwara, but Daiki hopes, every time, that Ryouta would.  
  
“Ah, whatever. Go ahead then, start talking.”  
  
  
  
“You’ll get wrinkles if you smoke so much, Dai-chan.”  
  
“Shut up,” Daiki says, but he dumps out the rest of the tobacco in the pipe anyway, grinding it into the ground. Beside him, Satsuki sighs and plops herself down next to him. Somewhere down the street, he could hear someone playing a _koto_ , badly. “Why are you here, anyway? Aren’t you supposed to have—I dunno, important events—“  
  
“Not today,” Satsuki says. Daiki supposes he’d have seen that coming; she’s wearing plain blue robe instead of her usual getup, her hair tied up in a simple bun. She’s careful about coming here, opting to look as plain and unassuming as possible—it simply wouldn’t do for a high-ranking geisha to be recognized here, walking among Yoshiwara’s most well-visited whorehouses. “Ki-chan came over yesterday, didn’t he?”  
  
Daiki sighs, digging a finger into his ear. “Mm.”  
  
“Gossip gets out fast,” Satsuki replies, but she isn’t looking at him. That’s enough to give Daiki pause as he fiddles with his collar, staring out into the backyard. If he were anyone else, they’d be telling him to be out front, pulling customers even in broad daylight—but he’s Daiki, and the proprietor has long since given up on trying to tell him to do anything. He really only has one customer these days, anyhow, that nets him more money than anyone else in the establishment.  
  
Not that it makes anything easier. It’s all too clear Satsuki is thinking the same as she puts a hand over his, squeezing it hard. “Dai-chan, you know you’ve earned enough to get out of here, right? You don’t have to keep doing—”  
  
“Where am I supposed to go then?”  
  
He blurts this out, and feels Satsuki’s fingers tighten even more. She, more than anyone, would know how it feels. They’d been sold so young, too young, and even after clawing to the top… “I don’t have anywhere else to go. And—“  
  
“Oh, Dai-chan,” Satsuki says, softly, so softly it burrows into Daiki’s mind through words unspoken: _Ki-chan’s a customer. He belongs to a different world from yours and mine, and he comes here for one thing only—remember that._  
  
They sit there until the clouds overhead darken enough to threaten rain, listening to the terrible music until it finally subsides.  
  
  
  
Ryouta comes in again the next night, sober and clean-cut, charming his way through the usual guards at the door. He’d even had the sense to call ahead this time, and so Daiki is already waiting for him in the usual room when he arrives.  
  
“Aominecchi,” he wails as he enters the room with a flourish, throwing away all pretense of presentability; Daiki raises an eyebrow at him. “We didn’t get to do anything last time—“  
  
“ _You_ ,” Daiki says, jabbing at Ryouta’s shoulder as he sits down, “Were so fucking drunk the guards had to carry you inside. It’s not my fault you ended up falling asleep instead of whatever it was you wanted.”  
  
“ _Language_ ,” Ryouta replies mischievously, leaning over to whisper in his ear, “Wouldn’t want to upset my delicate ears, would you?”  
  
“Delicate my ass,” Daiki retorts, watching Ryouta tug at his sash. “You’re eager today.”  
  
“I’m always eager,” Ryouta says, letting Daiki do the same to his clothes. “Especially if it’s Aominecchi.”  
  
“Especially, huh?”  
  
He means it jokingly, though something about the way Ryouta had said it made something drop in the back of his head. Ryouta looks up from his handiwork, a little startled; Daiki tries to look away, but the way Ryouta’s breath catches tells him it’s too late.  
__  
You’re not supposed to want this.  
  
You’re good at what you do, but why would you think a prince would even look at you the way you look at him?  
  
He’s waiting for a reprimand, a yell—what the hell, he’ll be able to deal, like he’s dealt with other customers before, won’t he?—but instead he feels Ryouta’s fingers touch his cheek.  
  
“Aominecchi?”  
  
Ryouta’s expression is far from unreadable—not simply from the amount of time he’s spent with Daiki in this room, but Daiki isn’t sure if what he’s seeing is even real. “…Do you want me to go?”  
  
“…No! That’s not—why the hell are you even asking? You’re the…the…”  
  
“I know,” Ryouta says, quietly. The candles have burnt low behind him; somehow the attendants had forgotten to replace them with new ones. “I know that.”  
  
“Then,” Daiki says, finally, wishing the world would evaporate around them, “Forget about that. I’m here now, aren’t I?”  
  
Whatever was there in Ryouta’s eyes is gone now, replaced by a veil of nothing as he pushes Daiki down into the futon. His composure is remarkable as he buries his face into Daiki’s chest, his half-clothed body pressed firm against Daiki’s.  
  
The candles extinguish themselves sometime in the middle of their reverie, but Daiki does not even notice until they are done, until Ryouta is asleep in his arms, the wetness on his cheek matting hair and skin. Whether it is his or Ryouta’s is irrelevant; there is nothing either of them can do about those tears, for now.  
  
All he can do is lay there and listen to Ryouta’s breathing, deep and even, a lullaby in its own right.  
  
  
  
When Daiki awakens in the morning there is nothing but the traces of warmth left on his chest, still fresh, a single chrysanthemum beside his bed.


End file.
